With the hatches at the rear of the room, the walkways on both sides slope down towards the dais at the front of the room. The stadium seating forms a partial semi-circle around the speaking podium and provides enough seats for all three hundred members of the Air Wing. The walls are adorned with the patches of each squadron aboard and their mottos stenciled in white lettering above each one. Behind the podium is a set of large LCD screens that can display any matter of material from reconnaissance to maps to gun camera footage.

Post-Holocaust Day: #70

The Ready Room is slowly but surely filling. All pilots and ECOs who weren't involved in CAP or some other necessary duty were called to this one. Even so, the stadium seating made to hold 300 still seems cavernously empty in spots. It is times like this one is reminded how diminished their complement is compared to what they launched with. An image of Leonis is already projected up on the LCD screen. It's a still, however. Not even a landing zone is identified. Those going down already have their briefing packets, and they're not labeled classified for show. This is the final briefing before those who have volunteered for that danger-close mission are slated to go down. It shall reference the mission in broad strokes rather than gory details. Cidra stands at the podium already, making a few more last notes on the pad balance in front of her for reference. Posture straight. Manner all of business. Blue eyes occasionally tick up as personnel drift in.

Quinn is here early, still moving a bit slow/achy from yesterday, it's not dared affect her work at all, so she's in the room, in her duty blues, butt in seat in the front row, a clip board for notes in front of her and her red hair in a tight plait starting at the crown of her head and weaving all the way down the back, once more another failing attempt at keeping the frizz down.

Marko makes his way in armed with his notepad, pencil and a curious expression on his face. He picks a seat roughly in the middle of the seats and settles into it with a few nods and smiles as his eyes pick out people he's friendly with.

Malone steps in, and looks around for a few moments, keeping silent as he looks around the room, before dropping into his usual seat near the middle of the crowd. Glancing around at the others for now.

Gone are the carefree days of lieutenantcy, when Lasher could simply slip into briefings with seconds to spare. No, this time he's here bright and early, a cup of tea in his hand as he stands off to the side. As the briefing looks to get started, he makes his way towards one of the aisle seats near the front.

Psyche arrives from Deck 7 Corridor.

McQueen arrives from Deck 7 Corridor.

And drift in, McQueen does. He hasn't apparently volunteered for anything resembling a high-stakes mission, according to common knowledge, but that doesn't stop him from gaping at the image of Leonis with a thin flash of his teeth. He salutes once and then ambles over towards the nearest free seat.

Dallas shuffles in a little late, flight suit on, zipper town, tee below exposed. A cupcake with pink frost (cartoony) is just visible between the zipper edges. Her tags are visible only because the tee has a wide neck, that hits collarbone. Not exactly standard issue, but it would be invisible if the zipper was up. Her ponytail is just slightly askew, and she almost looks like she just woke up. She has a mug in hand, half full of something warm and coffee colored. It's a good bet there's enough sweetener in there to level a kindergarden class. She gravitates, of course, toward the pilots most likely to smack her if she nods off. Safety precaution.

Enter (part of) Team Ensign, Tisiphone and Daphne, stalking in through the large main doors. "…seriously, not a peep," the former is saying to the latter, gesturing a bit with a half-smoked ciggie. Her TOP SECRET folder is tucked under her arm rather negligently. She starts to turn in at a row of seats near the back, then gives her bunkmate a sidelong look before moving further toward the front. She'll take the second-to-front row; Daphne will doubtless take the front. She always does.

Rojas is next in the smattered conga-line of entrants, sans coffee but clutching a bottle of water that's been swigged from the entire way to the Ready Room. He's in his flight suit, zipped up to the collar and moving towards the back of the room. Not for a chair, but to lean against the back row, drinking quietly.

Lieutenancy schmieutenancy. Shiv, clearly just off a patrol and still sporting full flight gear — including helmet — slouches on in at roughly the last second possible. He looks a little flushed, so he probably jogged some, or most of the way here. There might or might not have been a detour past the candy machine in the galley involved. A shoulder's leaned against the bulkhead nearest the hatch, blue eyes turned to the Major at the front of the room. It's pretty safe to say he left his TOP SECRET folder behind, in his bunk.

Quinn turns her head, quietly noting all of those coming in, every familiar face and family member they've all gotten to be over this crazy few months. If she actually manages to catch anyone's eyes, she gives them a slight smile and a nod, but otherwise she refrains from speaking. The standing Sitka gets a bit of a lofted brow…Has she been missing something among the other SL?s

Psyche slips in shortly thereafter, unusually subdued, pausing to take in the set-up. Her eyes flicker — instead of from face to face — from folder to folder, noting Who's Going. And, by definition, might not be back. She looks a little more stricken with each TOP SECRET she sees, then swallows and goes over to sit beside Queenie, settling in with her fellow Left Behind.

Daphne's folder is buried underneath exactly 24 sheets of paper on her clipboard, all of which are aligned perfectly. Between the sheets of paper and the previously mentioned TOP SECRET packet is a slip of cardboard, presumably to make writing on those sheets of paper a more palatable engagement. Not a lock of hair is out of place on the Ensign. "Oh my gods." She laughs a bit, "There's no way you didn't have a frakking field day with…" She shuts up the moment she passes through the threshhold. When Tisiphone heads for the back row, she looks at her as if to say 'where are you going'? Once Tis takes the second middle seat, Daphne takes the one all the way in the front and in the center. This woman rides the T-Zone.

Daphne's TOP SECRET folder is buried underneath exactly 24 sheets of paper on her clipboard, all of which are aligned perfectly. Between the sheets of paper and the previously mentioned TOP SECRET packet is a slip of cardboard, presumably to make writing on those sheets of paper a more palatable engagement. Not a lock of hair is out of place on the Ensign. "Oh my gods." She laughs a bit, "There's no way you didn't have a frakking field day with…" She shuts up the moment she passes through the threshhold. When Tisiphone heads for the back row, she looks at her as if to say 'where are you going'? Once Tis takes the second middle seat, Daphne takes the one all the way in the front and in the center. This woman rides the T-Zone.

Cidra's eyes rove back and forth. Back and forth. Following the trajectory of the many pilots and sundry personnel across the Ready Room. Gaze pauses on Covington. And her T-shirt. Lips purse faintly. It's not disapproval, really. Perhaps she's mourning that it's too late to grab a snack. In any case. She clears her throat once five-past Start Time has ticked and most are settled. "Ahem." She has a talent for projecting such subtle noises. "I shall keep this short. Many of you have an appointment with the Eidolon and Tactical would be cross with me if I made you tardy. As most of you know, a small mission is being sent to the colony of Leonis aboard that freighter. The goal, to retrieve much-needed aircraft, parts and other necessities from an air base on planet. To those who have volunteered, you have the thanks of myself and this ship. I must admit, I did not expect so many to step forward." Is that smile? Maybe. Always hard to tell with her. But she sounds just a little proud.

Covington nestles her butt into a chair, drags on some of her sugary caffeination (lifeblood), and turns her eyes toward Cidra as the briefing begins. She lifts her coffee cup at the group acknowledgment of how crazy er… dutiful the Wing is, to volunteer for something dangerous. It is Leonis, after all.

Malone leans back in his seat, listening to the start of the briefing now. Staying quiet for the moment as he glances between the others, a bit of a thoughtful frown as he listens.

McQueen simply leans back in his chair, however slightly as he stretches his legs outward, his upturned head eyeing the CAG a tad. Yeah. He's all ears.

Quinn looks up quietly as Cidra finally starts, keeping her expression dead calm now save for a faint bob of her head at the mention of the Leonis mission..

Lasher's caffeination isn't likely as sugary as Covington's, but it's no less crucial to the man's survival. Well, that and nicotine. However, the ready room is a non-smoking establishment during briefings. Woe. Thus, in place of a cigarette, he tries to make do with a long drink from his mug, instead. He settles in his seat, blue eyes narrowed slightly as Cidra begins to speak. His expression never changes, even after the CAG's thanks to the room.

Marko's eyebrows raise at the mention of Leonis. Well, that explains a few things, doesn't it? And of course, he's going to miss the party. Bugger, damn and blast! Someone's starting to feel a little bit like a third wheel around here.

Further masticating the end of an already well-chewed pen, Psyche listens to the CAG somberly. A rather hangdog expression flits across her features as Cidra mentions the volunteers. She pulls up her legs and folds them into a lotus position, then blows a small, pink bubble before she realizes she should have politely discarded her gum. She eyeshifts guiltily, then swallows.

No smoking during briefings? Not in Tisiphone's TOP SECRET folder. She slouches back into her seat, directly behind Daphne, and continues dragging on her half-gone ciggie. The second Daphne looks like she's started taking notes, she starts lightly kicking the back of her fellow Ensign's seat. Thump. Thump. It could be a restless tic. Thump. Thump. It totally isn't. Her eyes remain on the CAG, through it all.

Mention of the Leonis mission, and those volunteering for it, causes Shiv's brows to sketch a slight furrow. He has neither cigarette nor cup of coffee to occupy him, though clamps his pen between his teeth while he hunts down a notepad in his gear.

Cidra's eyes rove back and forth. Back and forth. Following the trajectory of the many pilots and sundry personnel across the Ready Room. Gaze pauses on Covington. And her T-shirt. Lips purse faintly. It's not disapproval, really. Perhaps she's mourning that it's too late to grab a snack. In any case. She clears her throat once five-past Start Time has ticked and most are settled. "Ahem." She has a talent for projecting such subtle noises. "I shall keep this short. Many of you have an appointment with the Eidolon and Tactical would be cross with me if I made you tardy. As most of you know, a small mission is being sent to the colony of Leonis aboard that freighter. The goal, to retrieve much-needed aircraft, parts and other necessities from an air base on planet. To those who have volunteered, you have the thanks of myself and this ship. I must admit, I did not expect so many to step forward." Is that smile? Maybe. Always hard to tell with her. But she sounds just a little proud.*RE* (there were others, of course, see forthcoming log for complete spam)'

Daphne takes notes almost immediately. Surely the ensign's been around the block enough times by now to know she doesn't need to copy down things like Suicide mission, many stepped forward, certain death and see my family again, but she does. The tap-tap-tapping on the back of her seat, however, makes her stop what she's doing, simply moving her seat forward just a pip, and then looking forward at Cidra.

"Captain Quinn has extensive experience in ground operations from her time on Tauron…" Cidra gestures a long finger at the Harriers' squad leader. "And shall be your contact of point for aerial personnel on the ground. With deference to Captains Sitka and Laskaris in Viper-specific matters." The squad leaders are representing down there. One hopes ambitious lieutenants aren't thinking about the chances for promotion implied in that. "The operations will be led by Tactical, so do take direction from them. In command is Major Michelle Bartholomew of the Corsair. Give her all due respect. I trust she will return you to me in good working order, or I shall be most cross with her." Ahem. "Those remaining behind, CAP schedules shall be tight. But, with the current surplus of pilots to planes, we shall manage no worse than were before. We shall keep the hearth burning. Our thoughts - and some of prayers - go with you to Leonis." A pause, and she looks out over the room again. To the faces gathered there. The empty seats. Is she…done? The silence goes on for a period that's long enough to make one a little twitchy. But they aren't dismissed. And she does, at least, speak again. Tone a little less brisk, almost abstracted. "It was not three months ago that we launched from spacedock at Leonis. But it does seem longer than that, does it not?" It's…probably a rhetorical question. She seems to have wandered off point of whatever track she was on.

Bell slips in just a hair tardy, and makes his way quickly and quietly to the back of the assembled pilots. Not the back of the room itself, cavernously empty as it is. He settles in and listens attentively.

Lasher's sitting close enough to Daphne that he can hear the soft thump of Tisiphone's boot against the back of the chair. He ignores it briefly, but his patience isn't much. Scowling, his head whips around in the direction of the ensigns. Tisiphone in particular; the bald woman gets a stark glare, and Lasher acidly utters two quick words, quietly as to not disturb Cidra's briefing. "Enough." This, to the kicking. "Out." This to what's left of the smoke in her hand. A lingering glare at the rambunctious pilots, and then his eyes finally settle back on the CAG. A brow raises as she seemingly goes off on a tangent.

There's a shift of the blonde pilot's posture. Dallas sits back in her seat, slides her legs crossed, and leans heavily on her armrest. She leans just slightly over into the space of the pilot to her right. Covington's brows don't so much as tic at the mention of both vippy Cptns going on the mission. Maybe she left her ambition in her string bikini back on Picon. Oh, a rhetorical question. Cue a Petrel responding do it, "Boy, howdy."

Malone listens carefully, sighing a bit at the part about the CAP schedules. Blinking very momentarily at the last part spoken by the CAG he pays even more close attention, now.

Daphne blinks, turning a little red in the face, then goes back to her notetaking. SL needs to get laid.

Strangely, and rather distantly, McQueen's mouth splays open revealing a very tight grin. "Oi." He finally utters. "Guess. Godspeed all of you, yeh? I miss the kebabs."

At Cidra's announcement of her position on the ground, Maggie Quinn nods almost immediately. She gives a look around the room, just trying to trace over faces, see who may or may not be going with her… And who will all, hopefully, be coming back. Once she's made a look to most of them, she gazes back to Cidra, her brow furrowing at the tangent… She clears her throat, raising her hand, wishing to say something, it seems, but not intrude on the woman's topic or debrief.

Trust it to have been a Petrel who answered the rhetorical question. Sitka doesn't even need to look over, to know whom the drawl belongs to. His lips twitch a little once he's extricated his pen, and flipped open his notepad. Scribble, scribble.

Yeah, that's right, it wasn't Rojas. He's too busy looking entirely bored and swirling the clear water around in it's bottle to answer rhetorical questions. Man's got a shifted sense of priorities. At least Dallas is picking up the slack.

"Oh. Yes. Captain Quinn. Do go ahead, please," Cidra says with a gesture toward said Captain. She seems almost grateful for the interruption. She rolls her shoulders, as if taking a moment to collect her thoughts. Eyes still flicking across the faces gathered there. And the empty chairs.

Rambunctious? /Rambunctious/? Well. Tisiphone's in oddly-buoyed spirits, at least. Anticipatory. She's halfway through a drag when Lasher's chastisement reaches her and causes her lungful of smoke to catch in her throat. How apropros. A single, barked cough, face falling to a classic 'shit. busted' expression. "Sorry, sir." Muttered under her breath; a moment later she hastily pulls a final drag off her cigarette and leans forward to drop it and grind it out.

Psyche winces and hunches her shoulders at the rebuke of Team Ensign, almost as though it was meant for her. She slouches down in her seat and resumes chewing her pen until finally, inevitably, a bit of it gnaws loose. She picks the plastic bit out of her mouth, making a disgustipated face, then gives Quinn her attention.

Quinn stands up a moment, looking across the heads of those in the room. She clears her throat, her clipped, professional Caprican accent easily heard across the gathering crowd, even whispering, distracted Ensigns. "For those of you who don't have much ground experience, you're welcome to bring questions or concerns to me right up until the mission. I'm not hard to find. Myself, Bootstrap and Bunny have all spent a large share of time in ground ops and it's a bit of a different tussle, so feel free to bring up any worries as you have them." She gives them a bit of a protective, almost motherly smile, before the middle aged woman folds back down into her seat in the front row.

Either Ibrahim's kids are well enough behaved to not require supervision, or, more likely, he just can't be assed to keep an eye on them. The Captain retains his slouch against the bulkhead, blue eyes skipping across to the redhead when she gets up to speak. A small smile follows in the wake of her words, whereupon his attention returns to the CAG.

Quinn gets an almost skeptical look from Laskaris as she stands up to speak, but the blond Viper captain listens nonetheless. His lips are pursed slightly; he finishes off the contents of his cup as Quinn falls back into her seat. Then, those flinty eyes swivel back to the podium and Cidra.

"The goal is those pilots going down shall be mainly tasked with gathering what aircraft they can from the base, and we shall get in and out under Cylon noses," Cidra gets going after Quinn speaks. "Such is the plan, at least." Well, they all know how the best laid plans can go by now. She still sounds abstracted as she continues, though now composed again. "I have been thinking much of the day we launched in these past hours. We were strangers then. Some of us we were not meant to be on this ship for more than a month. Some of us were near retirement. Or rooks, fresh out of flight school. Well. Whatever any of us thought this would be, none ever dreamed it would be this. We have lost friends. We have lost good people who deserved to be known better by us. But we remain. We are still the Fighting Fourteenth. We remain. It is useless to ask why we remain, when so much else has been destroyed. Believe me, I have sought answers and found no great epiphany about it all. I just know that, we remain. Many no doubt wonder where we are bound, beyond Leonis. I cannot answer that yet. But I can tell you this. We shall go on. We shall remain, and I believe we shall find a path forward."

That's the spirit. "So say we all," comes the affirmation of Cidra's words from the Professor towards the rear, accompanied by a single, solemn nod. His left hand forms into a fist, then relaxes.

Quinn echoes rather firmly with the professor far towards the back, "So say we all."

There's a pause of a few beats before the blonde Petrel chimes in again, this time more loudly, "Remain and kick some ass," Dallas amends. "Shiny metal ass. Still ass." How many times can a lieutenant fit the word ass into a rousing statement? Don't ask. "Sir."

Rojas takes a final swig from the bottle, re-sealing the cap without much ado and pushing away from the chair. The stifled yawn is a lot more obvious, despite his hand making a lazy attempt to cover it. He doesn't seem to be one for speeches.

Sitka's expression borders on a faint frown when the reservists are mentioned. The retirees. Not unhappiness; perhaps merely resonance. There's no 'so say we all' from him, though his eyes do briefly come up and try to catch the CAG's in silent approval for the rest of her words.

Psyche laces her fingers together and presses them against her mouth, listening to Cidra with wide and luminous eyes, visibly moved. She doesn't make a sound, quite still, and it's a few long moments before the trusts herself to so much as blink.

Still staying quiet, Malone glances around at the others assembled for now, looking a little lost in thought as he studies the people present.

"So say we all." Marko echoes, sitting up a little straighter as the implications of this mission start to click home in his mind. Marines will be involved in this and a certain young Lieutenant has been conspicuous by her absence recently. Oh…frak…

"So say we all, Sir." Previous rambunctiousness comes through in Tisiphone's voice as earnestness — or perhaps foolhardy naivete. It's hard to say for sure. She shifts restlessly in her seat, uncrossing and recrossing her legs. The back of Daphne's seat is hit once as she does this. Thump.

"So say we all." It's an almost robotic response by Ensign Kolettis, but she issues it just the same, with more than a hint of feeling in her face when she utters it, even if the audible enthusiasm is way down. And then Tisiphone ruins the moment, as it were, by thumping her chair. She just smiles to herself, doing nothing in response.

A sharp nod towards the podium and a twitch of the lips is Laskaris' only response. If he did indeed echo the 'so say we all' floating around the room, it was too quietly for anyone else to hear.

Cidra clears her throat again. Eyes rest on certain faces in the crowd, even catching Sitka's gaze for a moment. "You have been asked to do the hardest of things and have flinched from none of it. I am very proud to serve with all of you," she says simply "Clear eyes, steady hands, and good hunting. Dismissed." And that, as they say, is that. "The Eidolon awaits."

Quinn doesn't quite leave yet. She shifts in her seat, watching the pilots begin to pile out of the room. Clearly, she's staring her open door policy right about now, which isn't a bad idea considering they don't even have 24 hours until this mission is set to start. So she waits, calm and quiet as when she walked in, one of her legs now tucked beneath her though so she can comfortably sit sideways in her chair.

"Such is the plan." McQueen says, softly, as he peels ass out of his seat and slowly ambles to a standing position, dusting off his fatigues. "And So Say We All." He pauses just one second as he amends, "I miss the kebabs." In a simple repetition. With that, he starts closing towards the hatch.

Marko gives Cidra and Quinn each a respectful nod before legging it out of the ready room as fast as his legs will carry him.

Upside to not sitting? Rojas can beeline for the door, throwing his empty bottle away with a plastic clateer as he goes. Alas, he doesn't seem all that impressed. Muttering under his breath something that includes the words 'Frakkin' pep-rally.' Sometimes, even he can wake up on the wrong side of his bunk.

Sitka tucks his notepad back into his flight suit, and actually draws up to his full height for once, in order to offer the Major a proper salute. Shock and horror. A small smile is flickered to the woman before he too shambles off for the hatch. Headed, no doubt, for the showers.

Sitka leaves, heading towards the Deck 7 [Out].

His pace isn't quite as frenetic as some of the junior officers, but Laskaris isn't sticking around either. His pace towards the ready room hatch is slow, probably because he's trying to do the cigarette patdown and walk at the same time.

"No smoking in the Ready Room, Sir," Tisiphone grumbles, hopefully far enough under her breath that it escapes Lasher's notice. "C'mon, let's get our stuff and go." Another thump-thumpthump to the back of Daphne's seat before she pushes up to her feet.

Bell rises, somewhat less hurriedly, and doesn't immediately make for the hatch. Observing.

Dallas hops up once the proceedings have concluded, though she pauses, right where she is, to finish off the sugar-sludge in the base of her mug.

Cidra blinks at Sitka's salute. Well, somebody's learning. It's acknowledged, of course, before he goes. And then she's off the podium. LCD screen flipped black. She does not linger. Quinn can handle any lingering questions about the ground op better than she. Her pace isn't precisely quick as she winds her way out, but that's where she goes without further ado.

"One day, Tisiphone, I am going to…" Daphne falls short, seemingly unsure of what she's going to do, but just you wait. It will be epic. She just can't think of anything right this instant. She makes a fist and shakes it in the air slightly, smirking sarcastically. "Come on. Let's go. I don't want to end up in Stinky's raptor. My luck, that's exactly what will happen."

Psyche blinks rapidly and shuts her eyes a moment, rubbing them briskly before standing. Wasn't getting verklempt at all, there. Not she. One last look around, lingering on faces, especially those with the Folders of Doom… and she leaves.

Psyche leaves, heading towards the Deck 7 [Out].

"Who's smoking?" This for Tisiphone, who gets another one of those flat stares from Laskaris as he nears the hatch. Ears like a bat, girl, ears like a bat. Nonplussed, he steps out through the hatch, lighting the cancer stick almost the moment after his foot crosses the threshold. Should be just enough time to finish it and one more while he's gathering his stuff and heading for the Raptor. His folder is tucked under his arm, and he disappears from view.

McQueen lingers a bit as he glances back at the pilots who remain, marking each one. There's something pointed in his study of them all, but he doesn't comment. He's lacking his usual silly grin.

"See you on the Eidolon, Sir!" This offered to Lasher with an entirely too chipper tone. As soon as the man leaves, Tisiphone snorts and looks back to Daphne. "One day, I'll be wound so tight I'm ready to burst, and you'll kick my chair until you calm the frak down. Yeah. C'mon, let's go." With that, she's heading for the door — until she's Professor-pounced. "Professor? You're not-?" A quick glance over the man. In search of: TOP SECRET folder.

Quinn lofts a single brow towards McQueen, feeling those eyes on her. She gives him a hint of a smile…"Something on your mind?" She inquires smoothly, her clipped accent never wavering tonight. She stands up, though, keeping her her clip board in her hands as she moves a bit closer..

Sludge consumed, Dallas hops off the row and hits the deck with laced up shoes. She glances briefly around, spots McQueen, and smiles. Nothing is said, but the blonde forms a little gun with her fingers, and pewpews her former combat wing before she hits the hatch, sliding past the grouping of chatty fairies.

"I am not that tightly wound." protests one tightly wound Daphne, who stops in lockstep with Tisiphone. She too scans for the TOP SECRET folder and finds nothing. Maybe it's hiding. She says nothing, though. Instead, she steps aside and waits.

Bell is decidedly empty-handed. Not even so much as a notepad. Here for moral support, it seems. He raises both hands palms-upward as if to demonstrate. "Someone has to keep flying circles around the battlegroup while you're off making a name for yourself," he offers, expression softening into an almost apologetic smile. "The aircraft handlers would go mad, I think, without someone invigorating to speak with on the radio."

"Always, Captain." Trevor states. McQueen's lilting accent rolls to highlight the statement, eyeing Quinn a little with a faint twinge of his lips. "Just rememberin' who's here right here and now, yeh?" He stops a bit and makes an imaginary 'hat tip' towards the departing Covington as well.

Quinn nods slightly, a frown tugging at her lips as she looks across the chairs. "Understood… hopefully it won't look much different next week." But she knows it might. She swallows back tightly, shaking her head, "But that's what we all signed up for, truthfully… So, work is work." She nods, curt and strong, ready to lead things up it seems come hell or high water.

Covington leaves, heading towards the Deck 7 [Out].

"But-" Tisiphone's restless anticipation settles back toward a frown as she looks at Bell. "I- yeah. I mean. Yes, Professor." Just the slightest hint of a bedgrudged tone, there. Old habits die hard. "Stop thinking about reacting and react, already. I won't forget. I'll- see you- well- whenever they let us back, eh?" There's something more she seems to want to say, but she glances to Daphne instead, giving her fellow Ensign a light shoulder-bump as encouragement to keep heading for the door.

Daphne gets the message readily enough, shrugging, "I'll see you on the ship, Tis." She makes for the door.

Daphne leaves, heading towards the Deck 7 [Out].

Tisiphone's eyes slide across Queenie as she turns toward the door. There's an odd glimmer there, and a grin that twitches more at one side of her mouth than the other, before her eyes travel the rest of the way toward the hatch and her feet push off to carry her along and out.

"Work is work. I envy you, in a way. Home. Enjoy the kebabs, everyone." He shrugs a hapless sort of shrug as he steps out of the way to allow Team Ensign to make an exit. As well as the Prof.

And this was…McQueen. Dun dun dun.

Tisiphone leaves, heading towards the Deck 7 [Out].

Bell isn't the saluting type. He simply inclines his head once more. "You will, I trust, do yourself and your squadron proud. Good hunting." He lets Team Ensign be on their way, and makes for the front of the briefing room. "Captain?" he queries of the Raptor commander.

Quinn turns her muddy green eyes up in Doc's direction, her slight smile turned on him now…"Yes, LT?" She inquires, not quite leaving either, but they're almost the last few left so she'll probably be out soon. She falls into place at his side, thoguh, so they can more comfortably talk in the big empty room.

McQueen leaves, heading towards the Deck 7 [Out].

"Take no offense - I mean no negative implications," Bell assures as a preface. "But do look after Abraham, will you? He may not be the first in line to seek out your assistance, but it has been quite some time since our squadron served as infantry. And even longer since he was in active duty."

Quinn's expression softens just a touch, some of the cool distance going out of her eyes. Her words aren't quite so clipped as normal as she responds, "…I look out for all of them, Doc. I promise…. might be to a fault, but I look out for all of them. Abraham included." HEr tone is protective, motherly…

Bell exhales slowly, steely eyes looking over the other pilot for a long moment before he nods, at long last. "I know. And I hope you take no offense. But with the order to stay behind comes a sense of helplessness that I am loathe to admit. We are masters of our own fates - but at times, our fates are not the ones that matter." Doc inclines himself in a shallow bow from the waist. "Thank you, Captain."

Quinn reaches one hand out to his shoulder, giving it a small, tight squeeze, her warm, calloused fingertips lingering. For a woman with the finest of Caprican accents, she's got hands as calloused as a day labourer. "Doc… no issue. It's my job. It's -our- job. We couldn't all go even if we wanted to. You've got to stay here and hold down the fort. I'll keep them together out there. And we'll all meet again someday." Hopefully next week. Maybe with the Gods… she doesn't voice aloud either option, but there is an earnest, strong belief in her greenbrown eyes.